“I’m fine,” Pan said. “I’d started to follow you, then I saw the same man up the side street breaking into cars and when he couldn’t get one started he just stole what he wanted. I thought you’d be following but I couldn’t find you. There was another, skinny man breaking into cars, taking things, then he broke into a black Audi.
“It didn’t take him long, he got the engine started, neat as you please. He took off, turned right at the next block but moving real slow as if looking for someone. I followed him. Behind me, I heard a couple of windows break, heard a car start. I kept following the Audi. He met another car, they stopped and talked, so low I couldn’t hear, then they both took off without lights. When I heard a tree fall I went back to look for you to see if you were all right. The street was quiet, the Jeep that had been parked there was gone. I was two blocks past the plaza when I heard sirens, saw red lights. Looked like the cops were at Joe’s house and I headed back fast.”
“The tree fell on Joe’s house,” Kit said, “on Joe Grey’s tower and on the stolen Jeep! The driver squirmed out and ran. Ryan reported it but we need to tell the cops he stole the BMW and locked it in that garage and—”
“No,” Joe said.
“But—”
“No way. How do you think that would look? What would the phantom snitch be doing at this hour out in the storm, so close to Clyde’s house?”
There had already been too many questions over the years about who the snitch was, the voice that had given the department so many useful leads but who would never identify himself. Even though the cops knew the snitch’s voice wasn’t Clyde’s, they’d have to wonder who would be out in this blow, so close to Clyde’s, at three in the morning, following the thieves.
“No,” Joe said again, his ears back, scowling at Kit.
She hung her head in silence. It wasn’t likely the cops would ever guess anything so bizarre as that a cat was their informant—though there had been some strange looks from the chief, and from the officers. “But,” she said, “someone has to tell them …”
Pan nuzzled Kit and licked her face. “Let it be. We’ll think of a way.”
“But we need to tell them now.”
“Let it be, Kit,” Pan said gruffly.
“I guess,” she said doubtfully, rubbing her face against his—and wondering how long the stolen BMW would remain in that garage.
Joe, watching the two, wanted suddenly to be close to Dulcie and the kittens, wanted to be tucked up with his own family, listening to the storm’s howl only from beyond solid walls.
He knew Dulcie worried about him, out on a wet, windy night. But he worried about her in a different way.
Ever since the kittens were born Dulcie, in the house with them most of the time, had experienced fits of cabin fever, a fierce longing to run the roofs with Joe and Kit and Pan, tracking the car thieves—or just to run the roofs alone, to snatch a few moments of freedom. Even now, when the kittens were four months old, even with Wilma to watch them, Dulcie wanted another cat to be near the youngsters, a cat who would make the unruly kittens behave, a cat more stern with them than Wilma ever was. Those three were so hardheaded, so adept at thinking up new trouble. To Wilma, disobedient kittens were amusing, they were not the same as a human parolee, to be sternly disciplined.
Now, crouched in the wind, the three cats moved quickly back to the safety of Joe’s house, dodging the blaze of lights from the two patrol cars and the cops’ LED flashlights. Near the wrecked car, Clyde and Officers Crowley and McFarland stood talking. On the roof, Pan paused, intently watching the officers. “Maybe we do need to call in and report that white BMW hidden car in the garage.”
“No,” Joe said again. “It’s too close, they don’t need to get curious.” Backing down a pine tree beside Ryan’s studio they beat it to the downstairs cat door. In the living room they were safe from the wind and, hopefully, from falling trees. They were wildly hungry; they were heading for the kitchen when Joe saw three white flecks clinging to the rug behind Pan’s hurrying paws.
He sniffed at them, and nudged Pan. “Hold up your paws.”
Puzzled, Pan held up one hind paw, then the other. Deep in the creases between his pads Joe found five more flecks. “What are those?” The specks had a faint but unfamiliar smell. Pan frowned, studied his paws and sniffed at them. Kit sniffed, and nosed at a fleck that clung to the rug. It came away sticking to her nose.
“Styrofoam,” she said, pawing it off. “Flecks from Styrofoam packing? Like they use to ship china or glassware? How could that stuff stick to your paws when you were running, out in that fierce wind?” She nosed at Pan’s front paw. “It does stick. Like wool threads stick to your fur. Static electricity, Lucinda says.”
“Where did it come from?” Joe said. “From that house?”
“Maybe,” Pan said. “Even in the wind and dark, I noticed some specks. I thought they were from the bushes, maybe flower seeds. I was more interested in trying to get the smell of the man.”
“Did you?” Joe said.
“A sooty smell,” Pan said, “like he could use a bath. I still say we need to report that BMW before … the way he acted, he doesn’t live there. So why would he leave the car there for very long? You can bet your paws he plans to move it, and maybe pretty quick.”
“We can’t report it,” Joe repeated. “Too close to my house. The cops know all our voices, and of course they know Ryan or Clyde.”
“We’ll think of a way,” Pan said. He said no more as the cats raced for the kitchen where a battery light was burning and the smell of coffee and of the butane camp stove wafted out to them. They could hear someone puttering about, and Joe thought about the leftover roast beef he knew was in the refrigerator. With the camp stove and a minute’s wait, they could settle in for a nice warm feast.
4
From the kitchen Ryan heard the cat door flap open. She looked out to the living room as the three cats bolted in, sopping wet. As they fled for the kitchen she grabbed the phone. First she called the Firettis. “Pan’s here, and Kit, too. They’d better stay until morning, until the storm dies. Yes, Joe’s fine, they all seem fine, just hungry as bears.” The cats stared up at her impatiently, dripping puddles on the linoleum. On the phone, John Firetti said something that made her laugh but that made her wipe a tear, too. “I know, John. Well, it keeps the adrenaline flowing.”
When she’d hung up, she dialed Kit’s house. Normally, Kit might be out anywhere at night getting into all kinds of trouble, Lucinda and Pedric had learned to sleep through their worries; but they didn’t often have a storm like this. She had started to tell Lucinda about the fallen tree when Kit hopped to the counter. Ryan held the phone so Kit could talk; she imagined tall, gray-haired Lucinda Greenlaw in her robe and slippers listening patiently as the bedraggled tortoiseshell went on and on in her usual endless narrative. “… and there was glass over everything, too, all over us like little diamonds, but Clyde and Ryan got it off us and Officers Crowley and McFarland are here lifting prints off the car and …”
Ryan put a hand on Kit, and at last Lucinda, at the other end of the line, was able to quiet her. Lucinda gave her strict orders, she was not to come home until morning, until the wind died and branches quit falling, and she was to watch for power lines. Kit, switching her tail, hissed at the phone and stalked away. She did not like to be told what to do.
Ryan, laughing, breaking the connection, called Wilma because Dulcie would be worried about Joe; then she called Kate Osborne. Their beautiful blond friend was staying by herself up in the hills at the cat shelter that Ryan and her construction crew had just completed. The living arrangement was temporary, until Kate could hire acceptable caretakers; she wouldn’t leave the shelter cats alone at night, in case of fire or some other emergency. But it was a lonely place, and Ryan worried about her, in this storm. When Joe and Pan leaped to the counter beside Kit, crowding close to listen, Ryan turned on the speaker.